Strange Yesterday by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

save us the bother of dragging him out, Mr. Cortlandt.” And to John Preswick: “There, you, come out of there.” And to Mr. Cortlandt: “Bless me, if he isn’t blinking like an owl I once fetched out of a pine in the midst of day!”
    John Preswick stood and looked up at them, and, as he stared, rage rose in his heart, until he could imagine himself out on the deck, beating in the faces of each of them with great blows of his fists. Never had he known that there was within him capacity for such dark hate.
    â€œCome out of there,” the man repeated. In a lower tone, the one called Mr. Cortlandt added:
    â€œYou had best be coming up—and with no nonsense.”
    John Preswick caught the hatch above him, to swing himself out and up, all in one motion—only to crumple back upon the sacks. He knew, then, how weak he was. There he lay, his heart throbbing, pleading with himself for the power that was once his.
    â€œMr. Mitchell,” said Mr. Cortlandt in the same soft voice, “you had best drop down and help him. It’s been a time that he was without food.”
    Mr. Mitchell seemed to hesitate; but then he drew himself over and nimbly dropped to John Preswick’s side. Significantly, he glanced at a wooden pin thrust into his belt, remarking: “Now come along, my lad, and behave yourself once and for all. You are in no condition for fight.”
    â€œNo,” John Preswick muttered, “I am not—thanks to the lot of you cowardly, rotten scum—”
    Mr. Mitchell caught him with his open palm across the mouth, and then struck him again with the back of the same hand, the force of the blow sending John Preswick back full length across the sacks. Unable to move, he lay, glaring from narrow blue eyes at the other, his dry, cracked lips caught in between his teeth.
    â€œAn officer, my pretty one,” Mr. Mitchell explained patiently, “is addressed as sir, or as, in my case, Mr. Mitchell. One speaks respectfully to an officer—”
    â€œGod damn me if I speak respectfully to such a swine—”
    This time Mr. Mitchell sent his closed fist into the center of John Preswick’s face, catching the tip of his nose and his upper lip, bringing blood from the nostrils. As he drew back his hand, he wiped it upon John Preswick’s shirt, smiling at his feeble attempts to rise to his feet. And when, at last, John Preswick did stand erect, he placed a hand in the center of his chest, and flung him back over the sacks.
    â€œFor a while,” he said apologetically. “It will give your blood a chance to cool. I favor men with hot blood, but they must know how and when to use it, eh, Mr. Cortlandt?”
    From above, Mr. Cortlandt nodded judiciously, saying nothing, his lips pursed, watching every bit of what was going on below.
    John Preswick glanced up, saw Mr. Cortlandt’s feet, and then returned his gaze to Mr. Mitchell, calm and imperturbable, gazing down at the nails of his upturned hands. Unchecked, the blood ran from his nose, over his shirt, sinking into it, clotting it to his skin. His dry upper lip was split, heavy, black blood welling forth to mingle with the red from his nostrils. Again he looked at Mr. Mitchell, broad of shoulder, narrow of hip, impersonally fingering his heavy, drooping mustache; and then he realized that the issue was his, just as at the inn, the drug inside of him, it had been Mr. Kwalkee’s. He said:
    â€œI will go, but by myself I have not the strength.”
    â€œSir,” Mr. Mitchell suggested blandly and gently.
    â€œSir.”
    â€œThen come along.” And he picked him up by the shoulders, lifting him to Mr. Cortlandt, who bent and drew him to the deck. Easily it was done, Mr. Mitchell following him, springing to the deck with a single bound.
    The support of Mr. Cortlandt’s arms removed, John Preswick reeled, held his balance for an instant, and then tumbled to the deck. He